Some Things
by percychased
Summary: Josef Wronski, master of the legendary Wronski feint, learns an age-old lesson from a brief encounter - magic can't save everyone.


_"There's a lit cigarette in the hand of my new angel. She's blowing smoke like halos."_

**_1968_**

London was a big, bustling city, nothing like he'd ever known in Poland. The Leaky Cauldron, old and worn, was where the team stayed. They were in England only for a few days, for a game against the English national team tomorrow.

Josef knew Poland was going to win; the English were too foolhardy, too willing to try things without testing them out. They weren't precise and perfect, like the well-oiled machine that the Polish team was. They'd been working on tactics for this game specifically for days.

England was gloomy and forlorn; the whole city seemed to live underneath a grey cloud. It was casting a miserable mood upon his teammates, who were all muttering in low voices, sipping their whisky in the pub below. Josef wasn't one to drink - he'd never had a liking for alcohol, unlike his teammates.

He slipped out of the damp, dark pub, leaning on the wall outside, bordering Diagon Alley. The air in there was thick and stifling, and his head cleared as soon as he stepped out.

A light breath from beside him told him there was someone else beside him. He turned his head - a woman in loose robes that were undone, leaning against a wall. Her eyes were narrowed, and she looked at everything and nothing, like she was narrowing her eyes at her thoughts.

Her robes were an odd, faded peach colour, coming down to her ankles, revealing Muggle clothing underneath. She had to be about his age; almost thirty, he guessed, although she could pass for younger or older. There was something about her that had an ageless quality, and Josef turned away, breathing in the damp air and feeling the wind chill his skin.

He only looked at her again out of the corner of his eye when a spell was muttered underneath her breath. She held a Muggle cigarette between her two fingers, cupping the ends, sheilding it from the wind.

She inhaled the smoke, letting her eyes flutter shut.

"Part of the Polish team, aren't ya?" Until she had spoken, Josef had thought she hadn't noticed him; but she had, and she was facing him, waiting for his response even though he could tell she already knew the answer. She had a face that was both normal and extraordinary - he couldn't quite pin down which one it was. There was a piece of limp brown hair sticking to her face, and one hand was on her hip, the other balancing a cigarette between two fingers.

"I am," he confirmed quietly.

"You don't like the pub, then? What're you doing outside, on a day like this?" she asked. Her voice sounded like it was both curious and offended. Her eyebrows were raised, still, almost meeting the top of her forehead. He could see her wand peeking out of her pocket.

"I'm not one for drinking. I do not understand what it means to you, though," said Josef. The woman seemed harsh and brash and mean, but there was an unexplainable gentleness about her, and Josef couldn't help but feel that she was just so _contradictory. _He didn't know what to make of this odd, odd woman - in Poland, women were basic - simple, pretty, and nice. He found they had no _variation. _

"I'm the landlord's wife," she said, her cheeks hollowing as she inhaled the smoke, pausing before continuing again. "It means a lot to me, Josef Wronski. I wouldn't trade it for the world."

She had left soon after, discarding her cigarette on the uneven cobblestone. He watched as it rolled away, and it was then he realized she hadn't asked his name, and he didn't tell her. Yet somehow she had seemed to know it.

**_2003 _**

Everything ached. Merlin, did everything ache - he used to be so young and agile. So quick. Oh, he should have treasured it while it lasted; this Portkey journey to Britain had taken more out of him than Quidditch used to. Just a press conference, they said.

He had not been back to Britain since the Quidditch World Cup, and even then, he hadn't stopped in London at all.

The place was familiar, but not the same; he had heard somewhere that whenever you come back to something, it changes the way you see it, just a little bit.

He pushed open the creaking door to the pub. The midday rush was just coming in - the tables were nearly full. The atmosphere was stuffy and loud, and there was a pair of witches who dropped their Daily Prophets when he walked in.

"Well, I never," one murmured.

"Of all the places," the other one whispered back.

Josef was aware of the prying eyes, and could feel their gaze burning into his back. They recognized him. He was mildly shocked - after his retirement, he hadn't kept his looks. He hadn't aged gracefully, but instead became a stooped, limping mass of joints aching because of the career he previously had.

"If it isn't Josef Wronski, haven't been round these parts for a while," said Tom, nodding at him. He was surprised the barman remembered him. He'd spent all of two minutes in the bar, before going outside.

"Tom," said Josef, nodding. "How's the wife?" The question had come up before he could stop it, a bubbling curiosity mingling with the old image of a contradictory woman leaning against a wall, with odd peach robes and a cigarette between her lips.

Tom looked surprised for a moment, looking up from where he was scrubbing a glass with a ragged old cloth. His face froze, in both shock and what looked like blurred grief.

"Long gone, y'see," said Tom, looking down. He slowed down the pace of his dish-washing, and regarded Josef. "Quite the woman, wasn't she? Those cigarettes, damn Muggle things, they got to her." He sighed. The Leaky Cauldron was becoming busier as they spoke. "She was your age, too, not old like me here. Twenty years ago, almost, Merlin... surprised you remember her."

"Spoke with her once," murmured Josef. "A passing curiosity."

Tom gave a sad smile, something that looked off on his heavily-lined face, completed with missing teeth and a few wisps of hair. "There are people that even magic can't save, m'afraid."

* * *

a/n - Tien Len Comp. Reviews are appreciated, as usual. WC 1,067.


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